It's a great big slumber party over here: The priest and the policeman came home from a month in Finland to find their apartment flooded, so while everything is being fixed, they're here for a week, complete with toddler and crib, camping out in the spare bedroom.
I know how fun and exhausting it is to hang out with someone who's been on this earth for, oh, about 20 months. But I forgot that I would look forward to coming home from work so much, the sound of the little feet of my goddaughter come running when I unlock the front door, to see that grubby little face and that waddling kind of diaper run she does, to hear her calling out to see if it's me.
Or to be honest, calling out to see if it's the husband, not me.
This could have something to do with the fact that the night before, as she sat on my lap while we ate sushi, I failed to notice that she had grabbed a great gob of wasabi from my plate until she started screaming after she'd stuffed it into her mouth.
I think she's going to have a lifelong fear of green gooey stuff, which isn't necessarily a bad thing.
But me, what kind of godfather am I?
I just found a little half-eaten cheese and butter sandwich tucked away on a low shelf in the old maid's room.
I'm in love with her, my goddaughter.
The Swedish word for the day is trotsålder. We call it the terrible twos in the States. She's got less than four months to go.
- by Francis S.